


nothing rhymes with bauble

by writevale



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Christmas Party, Drunk poetic improvisation on the tube, M/M, Mistletoe, Poetry, Pre-Relationship, Pre-S1, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: The Magnus Institute's Annual Christmas Party goes exactly as planned.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 303





	nothing rhymes with bauble

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom! Inspired by having to sit exams instead of going out and getting festively tanked like the rest of the UK and some lovely inspiration from [treeprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeprince/pseuds/treeprince) who has also written some quality jonmartin for your viewing pleasure. 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

Martin lets out a frustrated groan, audible even over the tinny sound of sleigh bells from the speaker. The tinsel he had been delicately sticking into the peeling paint of the break room wall falls down with a rustle.

‘It’s fi-ine!’ Sasha insists. Again. She puts down the final stack of paper plates with a slow smile. ‘You know what will make it look perfect?’

‘Uhh?’ Martin starts, collecting up the green tinsel a little forlornly.

‘Mulled wine.’ She says.

She’s right.

🎄

Tim Stoker enters the break room and the library staff nearly drop their pigs in blankets in shock at the loud cheer that erupts from near the drinks table. There’s a festive arrogance to his step, as though he’s one of those dads on the Christmas adverts who walks in with the turkey to the sound of cooing compliments from his gathered family.

The turkey is an Archivist.

His lips are twisted into a scowl which remains unmoved despite his colleagues’ delighted and only slightly sarcastic whooping.

‘I’m not staying for long.’ He curtly informs them as Tim pushes him over.

‘Yeah, right. Have some wine, boss.’ Tim rolls his eyes behind Jon’s back before he fully registers what he’s seeing. ‘Sasha! You look . . . Decorated.’ She and Martin giggle, faces flushed behind white polystyrene cups.

‘Martin couldn’t put the tinsel up so we just - kind of - wrapped me in it.’

She twirls, green and glittering, and has to grab onto Martin’s festive jumper to steady herself when she stops.

‘Jesus,’ Tim mutters, ‘I hope you two saved some for the rest of us.’

🎄

The mulled wine isn’t too bad. Jon isn’t even sure that it’s shop-bought. The thought of an employee of the Magnus Institute caring enough about the annual Christmas party to mull their own wine is an alien concept. But he appreciates it anyway.

He casts an eye around the break room. Martin and Sasha haven’t done a terrible job hiding the worst of the cracks in the walls with plastic snowmen and reindeer and they’ve been able to make a sort of dancefloor in the centre of the room which is currently acceptably occupied.

He takes another canapé and bites into it delicately. A few metres away, Martin is in deep discussion with one of the librarians about some book or other. Martin seems to be holding his own but Jon suspects he’d fare a little better if he were sober enough to say the word ‘specifically’ properly. He’s caught between the dialectic desires of wanting to step in and show Martin how to argue like an academic and wanting to ask this librarian why he hasn’t been moved to a researcher position at the archives if he knows so _very_ much.

He’s interrupted by the glowing face of Sasha.

‘Jonnn.’ She sing-songs, clearly hiding something.

‘What are you holding behind your back?’ He takes a tiny shuffle backwards and bumps into the wall. Cornered.

‘I just couldn’t help but notice that you’re the _only person_ here without a Christmas jumper or hat!’

 _Oh_ , Jon thinks _, oh God_.

‘And,’ She starts to reveal the hidden item as she speaks, it’s brown and fuzzy and- ‘Martin very clearly said that Christmas get-up was compulsory.’

‘I-‘

‘Jonathan Sims. Put the antlers on.’

🎄

If Martin’s trying not to laugh at him in these ridiculous antlers, he’s not doing a very good job. Several people have tried to make slurred, polite conversation with the Head Archivist which he is just about able to tolerate until he glances around and catches Martin looking at him, all laughter lines and a dopey smile and Jon abruptly loses track of their conversation. It’s irritating. Maybe someone spiked the mulled wine.

‘If I’d seen there was going to be karaoke, I definitely wouldn’t have come.’ He half-growls to Martin as the assistant circles near. Martin leans back on the wall next to him with a chuckle as they watch Tim melt the hearts of several young colleagues with a particularly dramatic rendition of Last Christmas.

‘You don’t like-?’

‘Martin.’ Jon sighs and Martin laughs.

‘I want to like it.’ Martin takes a sip of his drink, ‘Like it seems so fun! But I can’t sing, sooo.’ Jon doesn’t know what to say to this. Martin is distinctly average at most things. It would be more of a surprise if he could actually hold a tune. Martin turns his head to look at him properly and a smile touches his lips at the antlers even as he lowers his voice, mock-serious. ‘Can you sing?’

‘What?’

‘I bet you can sing. You look like someone who should be able to sing.’

‘I’m not doing karaoke, Martin.’

That’s not a no. The assistant gasps, prises himself off the wall. He twists so that his pink, freckly ear is by Jon’s mouth, the gold paper of his party hat glinting in the Archivist’s eyes.

‘Sing for me!’

‘Absolutely not.’ Jon’s voice is a low rumble in Martin’s ear.

‘No-one else will hear.’

‘ _Martin_.’ Jon threatens, exasperated.

Martin stumbles away, pale skin gone scarlet. ‘Right.’ He looks at Jon’s shoes. ‘Sorry! I should-‘

Jon needs a cigarette.

🎄

‘Ladies, gentleman, things from artefact storage,’ Tim croons into the microphone to a drunken cackle of laughter, ‘I have grave news, grave news indeed.’ A great hush falls over the break room. In the background, someone sings about witnessing an illicit but festive love affair. ‘We’re out of mulled wine!’

The room erupts. Sasha hears Martin let out a quiet ‘oh, no’ and squeezes his arm.

‘But FEAR NOT.’ Tim continues with his most dashing grin. ‘The Archive staff brought _gin_ and there’s plenty to share!’

‘Makes his own gin, sn’t that cool?’ Sasha waves her cup under Martin’s nose and he wrinkles it slightly.

‘Hey, Daniel - yoohooo, Daniel from, accounting!’ Tim continues into the microphone, ‘Hi, there. I can get Elias to pay for this, right? What _? Oh_. Sure, you grab a glass and we can _talk about it._ ’ 

🎄

‘Oh, great. You came back!’ Sasha dances over with a huge smile. The cold December air outside has sobered Jon up enough to really see what a state some of his colleagues have got themselves into. Sasha included.

‘God knows, why.’ Jon grumbles. He’s quite annoyed at himself, actually, for not ditching this sad affair and going home.  
His grousing is ignored. ‘It’s safe now. Creepy Steve has gone home.’

‘Safe to do what?’

‘This!’

She does something to the antlers he had forgotten he was wearing and now, when he looks up, there’s something green bouncing around with his head movements. _Oh, God._ He reaches up to tear away the offending mistletoe but his hand is slapped away by Tim, appearing as if by magic now that there was a joke to be had at Jon’s expense.

‘Now, now. Don’t be a Scrooge.’

🎄

The party starts to properly thin out fairly early. Normal people have spouses and children to get home to. Jon is, quite obviously, sulking. He’s claimed one of the chairs at the side of the room and the spring of mistletoe between his fuzzy antlers is looking droopier by the second.

‘You’ve got a face like a smacked arse, Sims.’ Tim comments as he chases round after a bin-bag wielding Martin as he attempts to tidy up. ‘Martin, this can wait -‘

‘Noooo,’ Martin drawls, ‘I need to-‘ He makes a wiggling gesture with his hips, somewhere between mopping up and a salsa dancer. He catches sight of Jon. ‘You don’t look very happy.’ At some point during the evening, Martin has acquired baubles for earrings and a pair of lurid glasses in the shape of Christmas trees. It makes his mournful pout in Jon’s direction look nothing short of ridiculous.

Jon huffs, ‘Sasha won’t let me leave until someone has made use of the mistletoe.’

The Archival Assistant in question had decided that it was her turn on the karaoke. And that the remaining party goers needed to hear her sing Walking In the Air.

‘She couldn’t actually stop you.’ Tim points out.

‘Yes, but I don’t want to upset her. I’m not actually an arsehole.’ Tim snorts. Martin hiccups.

‘I don’t think you’re an-‘ Hiccup. ‘Arse-‘ Hiccup. ‘Hole.’ His last hiccup is so forceful that it knocks one of his baubles off and he lets out a soft, disappointed sound.

‘Hey, Martin.’ Tim’s voice is sly, ‘Why don’t we have a little kiss under the mistletoe and then Jon can get off?’ He waggles his eyebrows. Martin’s green eyes meet Jon’s from behind those ludicrous glasses.

‘Do you really want to go home?’ Jon says nothing and Martin drops the bin bag with a previously unsuspected level of sass. ‘ _Fine_. Stand up, Jon.’ He hiccups again, ‘I don’t wanna have to do this twice because it doesn’t meet the speshifics of Sasha’s demands.’ Jon rises to his feet and Tim smirks.

‘You ready, Martin?’

‘Oh, _please_.’

Jon suspects he may have to re-evaluate his personal definition of a little kiss.

It’s not that he -

It’s not like he’s thought about it. It’s not the kind of thing he thinks about. But he will concede that he has drunk a perfectly seasonally appropriate amount of a highly flammable liquid.

Which is why it probably feels like his stomach is on fire.

It’s just that Martin Blackwood is distinctly average at most things. So, logically, Jon shouldn’t feel like the breath has been knocked out of him as Martin tilts Tim’s head back with a firm hand on his jaw. Shouldn’t catch himself biting his own lip as he sees Martin nip gently at Tim’s. Shouldn’t clench his own fingers together tight as Tim’s hands fist into the soft wool of that stupid Christmas jumper. Except he’s not even looking at Tim, he’s watching the way Martin’s gingery-brown eyelashes flicker shut against his soft, flushed skin. The way the tendons stand out in the back of his hands. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Martin is unexpectedly _dominant_ and unequivocally _good_ at this. And Jon doesn’t know what to do with that information at all.

‘Jesus wept, Martin!’ Tim says loudly as they pull apart. Martin opens his mouth, now wetter and pinker than Jon has ever seen it before, but is cut off by Sasha, still tinsel clad and apparently furious. She points a finger at Tim and a guilty shadow passes briefly over his face. The burning in Jon's stomach starts to feel more acid than flame.

‘Great.’ He says acerbically, ripping the antlers and mistletoe off his head. ‘I’m going home now.’

🎄

‘Thank you for taking us hoome!’ Sasha practically shouts into the busy tube carriage. Both she and Martin appear to be having some kind of strange second wave of drunkenness. It must be that god-awful gin. And, of course, its brewer had something better to do than take his wrecked colleagues home.

‘It’s fine.’ Jon says, making a show of speaking really quietly in case Sasha isn’t too far gone to turn it down. Martin hums in agreement, sleepy and warm where he presses against Jon’s side in the crowded carriage. Jon had managed to steal two seats for his colleagues but has to stand himself, more aware of his own intoxication as the rattling of the train sends him swaying.

Sasha is too far gone to turn it down. ‘Martin . . . Martin! MAR-‘

‘WHAT?’ He shouts back, sitting up properly to squint across the small carriage at Sasha. The surrounding passengers glare at them. If Jon were completely sober he wouldn’t be able to cope with this at all. He already felt like a wanker for taking the last two priority seats. He shoots Sasha a look. 

Sasha smiles blithely. ‘Please can I have a Christmas poem?’

‘Sash, I haven’t GOT any Christmas poems.’

Jon would breathe a quiet sigh of relief, except for the fact that they’re still talking so very very loudly.

‘Write me oooone.’ Sasha whines, tinsel rustling as she stomps a foot. Then, an evil smile, ‘I’m going to sing until you give me a poem!’

‘Sasha-!’

‘Wee’re WALKING IN THE AIR-‘

‘Sasha, please-!’

‘We’re WALKING in a MOONlit SKYY.’

‘ _Sasha._ ’ Jon hisses, ‘Martin, do something!’

‘Shut up!’ An irritated voice shouts from down the carriage. Jon cranes his neck to try and pick out the owner, but everyone is staring at them and everyone seems equally annoyed.

‘Okay, okay!’

Jon almost jumps as he feels the backs of cold fingers brush against his wrist. Martin has grabbed hold of his sleeve and is staring at it intently, like he can summon words from the frayed cuff with his unfocused eyes. He thinks about shaking Martin off but the icy slide of his fingers is harmless. It's . . . Sobering. There’s another rustle of tinsel as Sasha flops forwards, resting her chin on her hands like a child awaiting a bed time story.

'Uh,' Martin begins. _A strong start,_ a wry voice in the back of Jon's mind smirks until the dancing of Martin's fingers stops abruptly and he becomes entirely focused on the bump of their hands as the movement of the carriage knocks them together. Jon wouldn't be surprised if Martin barely remembered he even had hands at this point.

'The people on her quiet street choose Christmas lights that sting and blind,

And - emulate the restless beat,

Of his heart and steps as he struggles to find,'

Martin's voice is stilted and slightly slurred but the hubbub in the carriage swells to a soft quiet as more of the occupants tune in to his words. 

'Footprints which could be his, um, returning,

To a child who decorates the tree,

And doesn't carve the turkey in silence,

When they're wishing you would leave them be,'

He's on a roll now. The words, seemingly snatched from Jon's sleeve, come more confidently. Jon lets go of the railing with his other hand just briefly to reach into his pocket and gently, quietly, set the tape recorder in his pocket running. He can't decide if the poem would be enjoyable with a normal blood alcohol concentration, but this way he can listen back and know for sure. If anything, it will make excellent blackmail material. Georgie was always saying he shouldn't be so reticent about giving himself a Christmas present.

'Decades before the things he's learning,

Before he loses that for which he's yearning,

When the magic of Christmas was given for free.

If you still believe enough, it can be seen,'

Jon looks down and is startled to find Martin looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. There's a whole carriage of people who, really, have no business listening to Martin's improvised and probably awful poetry, but when they make eye contact it suddenly feels incredibly intimate. Like the words are from Jon and for Jon alone.

And his tape recorder.

'The whisper of snowflakes landing on eyelashes,

The pine needles that scatter in glistening green,

Twined pretty in tinsel between golden flashes,

Seal your hope up in glass and hang it like a bauble,'

Martin looks back towards their hands suddenly, a twitch at his mouth that could have been a smile were it not so fleeting.

'Close your eyes and pretend it's - pretend it's Father Christmas you're kissing,

Convince yourself it's magic that you taste,

Sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg on the parts you are missing - oh, _fuck_!'

Martin had been holding the room's attention like a robin on a snowy fence, striking and wholesome. It flies away quickly as he laughs drunkenly, hands leaving Jon's sleeve to collapse on his knees.

'Nothing rhymes with fucking _bauble_.'

🎄

'Well, this is me.' Martin nods up at the imposing concrete block of flats and Jon narrows his eyes but lets go of Martin's arm anyway. He should be able to stagger the short distance to the door without too much trouble.

'Right.' Jon's breath forms a white plume in the cold air. When it clears, Martin is looking up at him, expression pinched with concern. 'What?'

'You're sure you're going to be okay getting home?'

Jon nods but that doesn't seem to satisfy the Archival Assistant, who looks back at the block of flats, unsubtle and wondering.

'I'll be fine, Martin. Won't take me long.'

'Promise you'll text that you've got home okay?' Jon wants to sigh, he's a grown man and Sasha had made them both promise the same thing. He nods instead but it does nothing to shift the unhappy twist to Martin's lips.

'Oh, what's the matter now?' He almost snaps.

'Did you -?'

' _What, Martin?_ '

'Did you have a nice time - tonight - at the party?'

'I-' He trails off, looks at Martin, shivering in his work clothes and an awful jumper emblazoned with 'Nice List'. He blinks and is greeted with the image of softly closed eyes juxtaposed against the slow movement of shiny lips and teeth. 'Yes. You did a good job. You and Sasha.'

Martin _beams_ , suddenly incandescent in the dull yellow of the sodium lights. He rubs his mouth but he's still smiling when he pulls his hand away.

'Good.' He says, ' _Good!_ I'm-' Jon can almost feel himself blushing with guilt at how pleased Martin is at his admission, 'I'm so glad.'

'Good. I -' Jon swallows, 'Have a lovely Christmas, Martin.'

There are suddenly arms around his neck, the smooth slide of Martin's cheek against his own, the soft tickle of thick, ginger hair at his nose. Martin smells, very, very alcoholic. For a brief, confusing half-second, Jon could swear he feels the cold brush of a pair of pale lips against his jaw. But it's over before he fully registers it. And given what Jon has learnt about the definition of a _little kiss_ this evening, it could only be an accident, could only be defined as nothing at all.

Martin pulls away before Jon gathers the wherewithal to hug him back. 

'Merry Christmas, Jon!' A beat. ' _Please_ , remember to text saying that you've got home safe.'

🎄

The streets are deserted.

Jon makes it around the corner before he pulls out the tape recorder and fumbles with the play button. He feels suddenly quite drunk now that Sasha and Martin aren't around to make him seem comparatively holy.

_Oh, fuck!_ Martin's laugh sounds full and bright even with the crackle of static and the muffling effect of Jon's pocket.

Jon tucks his fingers into the sleeve of his jacket to protect them from the chill. A frigid breeze pushes an empty can of Carlsberg down the street and he feels it wash over a spot on his jawline where it's likely that nothing happened. He smiles. 'Nothing rhymes with fucking bauble.'

**Author's Note:**

> All I can say is thank baby jesus that Martin is meant to be an average poet. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful festive season!


End file.
